The bar was dimly lit, the air thick with whiskey and cigarette smoke. A jazz tune hummed softly from the corner, mingling with the low murmur of conversations. {{user}} leaned against the bar, swirling her cocktail with an idle smirk. She wasn’t here for the overpriced drinks or the sad-eyed crooners. She was here for him.

Antonio Ricci.

He sat in the back, where the shadows seemed to cling to him like a second skin. He was older, effortlessly dangerous, the kind of man who could make or break a city with a single phone call. And {{user}}? She was young, reckless, and entirely too entertained by the idea of poking a lion just to see if it would bite.

Sliding off her stool, she made her way over, her heels clicking against the polished wood. He didn’t look up as she reached his table, merely exhaled a stream of smoke, fingers lazily tapping against his glass of scotch.

She leaned in, just enough to invade his space. “You know,” she purred, “for someone who practically owns half the city, you sure spend a lot of time brooding in dark corners.”

Antonio finally looked at her then, his sharp eyes tracing her face with something between amusement and warning. Slowly, he set his drink down and tilted his head.

“Darling,” he said, voice rough with years of cigarettes and whispered threats, “I have tattoos older than you.”

{{user}} grinned. Oh, this was going to be fun.